by Dana Bate
When I started working on the feature, I was a junior, doing a spot for the weekly food show I produced for the Northwestern News Network. As someone who loved telling “people stories,” I wanted to profile not only the students and professors who were whipping up their best chili recipes, but also the children in Africa who would benefit from the money the university raised. I knew there was no way we’d be able to travel to Africa, but I figured with enough advance notice, I could get one of the schools to send me some promotional video of their own.
And that’s when things started to get weird.
When I asked Professor Ferguson for a list of schools I could contact, he instead put me in touch with someone in media relations at his nonprofit, who then sent me a small snippet of video that looked at least ten years old. When I asked for something more recent, she said that was all they had. And when I asked for a local contact in Kenya or Tanzania, she kept saying she’d get back to me, but never did.
I finally did some digging on my own and found one school Professor Ferguson had mentioned in an interview with Charlie Rose, but when I tried to e-mail the principal there, I discovered the school had closed—five years earlier.
When Zach and I spoke a few days later, I told him I’d stumbled across a potentially major story—one that could tarnish not only Professor Ferguson’s reputation but the reputation of the entire university as well.
“Leave it alone,” Zach said, without skipping a beat.
“Why?”
“You’ll just open a can of worms and get yourself into trouble. Someone as important as Arthur Ferguson isn’t going to be brought down by some scrappy twenty-year-old. You don’t even know he’s done anything wrong.”
“It looks really bad, Zach.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll be the one ruined by this story, not him. Let it be.”
So I did.
I’d never loved covering hard news stories anyway, so I told myself Zach was right. I had no business covering a story like that. But the guilt gnawed at me until one day, three years later, when I opened my daily New York Times digest to find a front-page story on how Arthur Ferguson’s nonprofit was a total sham. He hadn’t built three-quarters of the schools he claimed he had, the ones he did build had closed years ago, and he’d absconded with the remaining funds. Boom.
At the time, I was still reeling from my breakup with Zach, and this reignited all of the hurt and anger. What right did he have to call me off the story? If I hadn’t listened to him, I could have exposed the scam earlier and saved millions and millions of dollars from being wasted. Maybe schools would have been built to help those children. Maybe that money could have been used for something good, instead of lining Arthur Ferguson’s pockets.
But that didn’t happen. Which is why, this time, I have to do the right thing the first time around. I can’t let another scandal slip through the cracks. The public has a right to know the truth.
I spend the week finding out everything I can about Everly Foods and its supply chain—how a frozen “Green Grocers Country Lasagna Dinner” gets from the processing plant to the shelf. I talk to regulators; I track down former employees through Google and Facebook; I call up business professors and financial analysts. I’ve never wanted to be an investigative journalist, but aside from wanting to make right on my past wrongs, I’m spurred on by the knowledge that if I get this right, a dream job awaits me at the other end.
According to my sources, Everly has been in financial straits for a few years and has been looking to cut expenses. They recently began outsourcing some of their processing and packaging to China—the largest producer of horsemeat in the world. Everly then imported the frozen meals, branded them with the Green Grocers private label, and shipped them out to Green Grocers, who sold them to millions of people looking for a quick and healthy microwave meal. From what I can put together, someone at the Chinese processing plant cut a few corners and swapped cheaper cuts of horse for the pricier beef.
Once I’ve nailed down a timeline and the basic facts, I reach out to Katherine Reed, Louis Frieback’s assistant. When I call the company, however, I’m told she no longer works there. I search for her on Google and Facebook, and feeling as if I’ve been running in circles for days, I finally find a number for her, which I call first thing Friday morning.
“Katherine?”
A long pause. “Who is this?”
“My name is Sydney Strauss. I’m a food writer for the Washington Chronicle.” A chill runs up my spine as those words come out of my mouth—words I’ve longed to say for more than a decade.
“What do you want?”
“I have a few quick questions for you about your time at Everly Foods.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“I can’t talk about that,” she says.
“I’ll be quick—just a few questions.”
“No, you don’t understand: I can’t talk about that. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Oh.” I twirl my pen in my hand. “So you can’t tell me about the e-mail you were copied on, dated June 28 of last year, between Bob Young and Louis Frieback, entitled ‘Problem with Supplier’?”
A beat. “What did you say your name was?”
“So you were copied on that e-mail. Right?”
Silence.
“Can you tell me why you left the company?”
“Like I already said, I can’t talk about that.”
“Was it to spend more time with your family, or to take another job, or . . . something else?”
A heavy sigh. “Listen. I can’t tell you anything. I wish I could, but I can’t.” She pauses. “Call Pete Hamilton. We worked together. He might be able to help you.”
She gives me his number and hangs up, and all I can think is that the better this story gets for me, the worse it gets for everyone else.
Pete Hamilton is a gold mine. Until two months ago, he worked in Everly’s IT department, meaning he can confirm the e-mails I found in Jeremy’s apartment are genuine. He was also good friends with Katherine and knows why she left: She caught wind of a potential horsemeat scandal, confronted Louis Frieback, and faster than you can say “chili con carne,” was out the door with a nice severance package. Pete doesn’t want to go on the record, but he says I can use him as an unnamed source. With his interview in my pocket, all I need are a few more on-the-record quotes and facts for this story to come together.
What unfortunately has not come together is the Green Grocers pilot project, something Rick has proceeded to complain about for the past week. When I show up at the West End market Saturday morning, he is already grumbling to himself as he rolls out of the front seat of the truck.
“Another day, another chance for someone to screw me,” he says.
“Good morning to you, too.”
He unlatches the back of the truck. “Tell me something: Do I look like the kind of guy who enjoys being dicked around?”
I shake my head.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who has patience for idiots?”
I shake my head again.
“Then tell me: Why are these idiots dicking me around?” He raises his arms and faces the other vendors, who, at the early hour of 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday, are minding their own business as they set up and pitch their tents. “Can somebody fucking tell me?”
A few of the other farmers look up and then carry on with their morning business, apparently unfazed by Rick’s latest outburst. Rick’s status as resident lunatic may be well established, but I wish this deal would go through as much as he does, and I hate to think how much he has riding on it and how much he stands to lose if everything falls apart.
Heidi shows up ten minutes late, carrying approximately five different tote bags, as per usual, at least two of which bear PBS and NPR logos. Rick interrupts his tirade at a stack of poppy seed muffins (“Could you stay put? Could you fucking do that for me? Could you?”) to acknowledge her tardiness with his signature chauvinism.
“Hey, Blondie—can’t you read a clock? Or are the numbers too complicated for your pretty little head?”
“I’d ask you to teach me, but my guess is you’d be too busy scratching your balls.”
I gasp and drop a chocolate chip muffin on the ground, certain I am about to witness my friend’s murder, but instead, Rick smirks and says, “Thanks, Blondie. I needed that this morning.”
Heidi throws her canvas bags beneath the table and grabs the muffin I dropped on the ground. “Thirty-second rule,” she says, before popping a hunk into her mouth.
“I’m pretty sure it’s called the five-second rule.”
She takes another bite. “Too late now.”
I stack a few more muffins on a cake stand. “So how are you? How was Houston?”
Heidi was at a conference last weekend, and I’ve been so busy with my research into the horsemeat story that I haven’t seen or talked to her in two weeks.
“Total waste of time,” she says, pulling her wheat-colored hair into a ponytail while a black elastic band hangs out of her mouth. She ties it into a messy bun on top of her head, looking the picture of bohemian chic in her loose floral tunic and black leggings. “But it was good to get out of town for a few days. What about you? How are things?”
“Things are good. Busy.”
“Newsletter stuff?”
“No. Well, I’m still working on the newsletter for Julie, but that isn’t what’s been keeping me busy. It’s this story I’m doing for the Chronicle.”
“Oh, right, for the blog.”
“This is actually for the paper.”
“Really? Wow, that’s awesome. What’s the story about?”
I arrange a row of flaky almond croissants in a long basket and wonder what I should tell Heidi. On the one hand, I shouldn’t say anything to anyone about a story that could hurt other people’s careers and potentially make mine. On the other, Heidi and I have been friends since college, and I can’t imagine keeping this from her. I also desperately want to share the story with someone because the secret is killing me.
“It’s . . . complicated,” I say.
“What do you mean? Like, it’s a complicated story? Or it’s complicated because you can’t talk about it?”
“Both.”
Heidi is about to say something when Rick interrupts us. “Hey, my little chiquitas. Less chitchat, more hustle. Comprende?”
“Sorry,” I say.
“I’m heading over to Broad Tree to discuss something with Maggie,” he says. “But when I get back, I want everything set up. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Rick waddles over to Maggie’s tent, and when he is out of earshot, Heidi clears her throat as she tosses an empty crate beneath the table. “So about this story . . .”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.”
She sticks a sign in front of the rhubarb crumb cake. “How complicated can it be? You’re writing about farmers’ markets. It’s not like you’re covering Watergate.”
“Not exactly.”
She smirks. “What, is there some big farmers’ market scandal afoot? Trouble in foodie paradise?” Her smile fades when I don’t respond. “Wait. There’s a scandal?”
I walk over to the cashbox and begin organizing the stack of twenties. “I can’t really talk about it.”
Heidi sidles up beside me. “Sydney. Come on. It’s me.”
“I know it’s you.”
“And have I ever betrayed your confidence? Have I given you any reason to mistrust me?”
I bite my lip as I close the cashbox. Heidi is right. In nearly a decade of friendship, she has never been disloyal. In college, when my period was late after one of Zach’s visits, she bought me a pregnancy test and didn’t tell a soul. And when the test came back negative, she hugged me, destroyed the evidence, and never mentioned the incident again. The girl may be capricious and free spirited, but she is damn good at keeping a secret.
“Okay,” I finally say, letting out a sigh. “But you can’t say a word to anyone.”
Heidi mimes locking her lips and tossing away the key.
“You know the new CEO of Green Grocers? The one spearheading the whole farmers’ market partnership?” Heidi nods. “Well, when he was COO, he discovered a bunch of Green Grocers’ frozen meals contained horsemeat from China, and he covered it up.”
Heidi’s blue eyes grow as big and round as two silver dollars. “Shut. Up.”
“Apparently one of Green Grocers’ suppliers had an issue with their supply chain.”
“Uh, ya think? How the hell did Chinese horsemeat end up here?”
“The supplier outsourced frozen meal production to China, and the Chinese subcontractor cut a few corners to keep costs down.”
“Jesus.” Heidi takes a deep breath, her eyes still wide. “How did you find out about this?”
I clear my throat. “Well, that’s the thing.... You know how I’ve been seeing more of Jeremy Brauer?”
“Don’t tell me he’s the shady contractor in question.” She rests a hand on her hip. “I told you to stay away from him. I told you he was bad news.”
“No—Heidi, jeez, calm down. Jeremy isn’t the shady contractor. He’s the one who came across the e-mails between Bob Young and the supplier. His company is doing PR for Green Grocers, and he saw the e-mails by mistake.”
“Oh. So he’s helping you with the story?”
“Not exactly.”
“But he gave you a copy of the e-mails.”
“Not exactly.”
“He knows you’re doing the story, though.”
“Not exactly.”
Heidi raises an eyebrow. “Then what exactly is he doing?”
“Working on the PR for the farmers’ market partnership.”
She huffs. “So he knows Green Grocers was putting Seabiscuit into its frozen dinners, and he isn’t planning to say anything about it? What a slimeball.”
“No—it isn’t like that. He went to his bosses about it, but they told him to butt out. And given his past, he doesn’t want to be part of a media circus again. Plus, he’s worried that if the scandal comes out, the company will call off the pilot program with the farmers’ market. He doesn’t want to screw everyone.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t want to screw himself.”
“It isn’t like that. I swear. He really does care about these people. He isn’t the sleaze you read about online.”
“If you say so . . .” She grabs the remaining signs and begins sticking them in front of the corresponding loaves of bread. “So if he didn’t show you the e-mails, how do you know they even exist?”
“Because I found them in his apartment.”
Heidi snorts. “Ah, so you were snooping.”
“I was not.” I rearrange the stack of quark bread. “Okay, I was kind of snooping. But only because I was having a panic attack and ended up locked in his bathroom.”
“He kept the e-mails in his bathroom?”
“No—he . . . I . . . Never mind. It isn’t important. The point is, I have copies.”
Heidi titters. “So Miss Goody-Two-Shoes stole her boyfriend’s e-mails while he thought she was having a panic attack in the shitter? This is hilarious.”
“I didn’t steal them. I took photos of them with my phone while he was sleeping.”
Heidi bursts into laughter. “Even better.”
“And he isn’t my boyfriend.” I stop and consider this as I dust the powdered sugar from the strawberry muffins off my hands. “Or maybe he is. We haven’t officially discussed it.”
“Sounds like you’ve been too busy trying to sabotage his career.”
“Hey—that’s unfair. I’m trying to redeem him. He’s my whistle-blower.” I pause. “Although I’m not really sure it counts if he doesn’t know he’s blowing the whistle.”
She bursts into another fit of laughter. “Sorry,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I can’t help myself. It’s
just too good. This has disaster written all over it.”
I roll my shoulders back. “Not necessarily.”
“Really? Describe one scenario in which this thing doesn’t go nuclear.”
I fidget with the sign in front of the chocolate chip cookies, even though it’s already straight and doesn’t need adjusting. “Okay, maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t matter. From past experience, I know telling this story is the right thing to do.”
“Are you at least going to tell him you’re working on it?”
I sigh. “Eventually. I just don’t want him to talk me out of writing it. I’ve made that mistake before. And anyway, if I nail this piece, I’ll be on my way to the career I’ve always wanted.”
“Maybe you should break it off with Jeremy until the story comes out.”
“No. I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I play with the edge of the tablecloth and then look up at Heidi. “Because I really like him. He’s smart and thoughtful and funny, and when I’m with him, I feel . . . well, like me again. The way I used to feel with Zach—alive, happy. He’s really into food and brews his own beer. He makes me laugh.” I pause. “I think . . . I think I’m falling for him.”
Heidi chokes on the air and holds up a finger while she grabs her bottle of water and takes a big gulp. She stares at me with wide, glassy eyes, as if she cannot believe that I, Sydney Strauss, could possibly be falling in love again, and with Jeremy Brauer of all people. But more than disbelief—more than blatant astonishment—the look on her face expresses pity wrapped in dread, as if my fate has been sealed, and confirms what I was beginning to suspect: that I’m skydiving without a parachute, tumbling ass over tits toward a pool of bloodthirsty sharks, and there’s nothing anyone can do to save me.
She takes another swig of water and smirks as she shakes her head. “Sydney, my friend, I have but one request.”
“Sure. Anything.”
“I won’t tell a soul about any of this, and you can talk to me about it any time you want. But when this thing blows up in all of its messy glory?” She screws the cap on her water and winks, a grin spreading across her face. “I want a front row seat.”
