FOURTEEN

Saturday night, January 24th

The windshield wipers tapped out a monotonous rhythm as Marsha rounded the final bend and got her first view of Higgins and Hancock. It was a sprawling, low-slung plant, with a vast, fenced-in stockyard in the rear. It looked ominous in the cold rain.

Marsha turned into the large, deserted parking lot. What cars that were there were widely scattered. When the three-to-eleven cleaning crew had arrived, the lot had been jammed with the day workers' vehicles.

Having visited the plant once during her orientation to the district, Marsha knew enough to drive around to the side. She recognized the unmarked door that was the employee entrance. Above it was a single caged light fixture which dimly lit the area.

Marsha parked, set the emergency brake, and turned off the engine; but she didn't get out. For a moment she sat and tried to bolster her confidence. After the conversation with Kim, she felt nervous about what she was about to do.

Prior to Kim's mentioning physical danger, Marsha had not considered it. Now she wasn't so sure. She'd heard plenty of stories of the industry's use of strong-arm tactics in its dealings with its immigrant employees and with union sympathizers. Consequently, she couldn't help but wonder how they might respond to the kind of threat her unauthorized activities would surely pose.

"You're being overly melodramatic," Marsha said out loud.

With sudden resolve, Marsha unhooked her cellular phone from its car cradle. She checked its battery.

"Well, here goes," she said as she alighted from the car.

It was raining harder than she expected, so she ran for the employee entrance. When she got there, she tried to yank open the door but found it locked. Next to the door was a button with a small plaque that said: AFTER HOURS. She pushed it.

After a half a minute and no response, Marsha rang the bell again and even rapped on the solid door with her fist. Just when she was thinking of returning to her car and calling the plant with her cell phone, the door swung open. A man in a brown-and-black security uniform looked out at her with a confused look on his face. Visitors were obviously a rarity.

Marsha flashed her USDA card and tried to push into the building. The man held his position, forcing her to remain in the rain.

"Let me see that," the guard said.

Marsha handed the man the card. He inspected it carefully, even reviewing the back.

"I'm a USDA inspector," Marsha said. She feigned irritation. "Do you really think it's appropriate to make me stand out here in the rain?"

"What are you doing here?" the man asked.

"What we inspectors always do," Marsha said. "I'm making sure federal rules are being followed."

The man finally backed up enough to allow Marsha to enter. She wiped moisture off her forehead and then shook it free from her hand.

"There's only cleaning going on now," the guard commented.

"I understand," Marsha said. "Could I please have my ID."

The guard handed back the card. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be in the USDA office," Marsha said over her shoulder. She was already on her way. She walked with determination and didn't look back, even though the guard's reaction had surprised her and added to her unease.

Bobby Bo Mason pulled the library's paneled mahogany door closed. The sound of merriment from the rest of the house was cut off abruptly. He turned to face his tuxedoed colleagues who were sprinkled around the library's interior. Represented were most of the city's businesses associated with beef and beef products: cattlemen, slaughterhouse directors, meat-processor presidents, and meat-distributor heads. Some of these men were sitting on dark-green velvet chairs; others were standing with their champagne glasses held close to their chests.

The library was one of Bobby Bo's favorite rooms. Under normal circumstances, every guest was made to come into it to admire its proportions. It was clad entirely in old-growth Brazilian mahogany. The carpet was an inch-thick antique Tabriz. Oddly, this "library" contained no books.

"Let's make this short so we can get back to more important things like eating and drinking," Bobby Bo said. His comment elicited some laughter. Bobby Bo enjoyed being the center of attention and was looking forward to his year as the president of the American Beef Alliance.

"The issue here is Miss Marsha Baldwin," Bobby Bo continued when he had everyone's attention.

"Excuse me," a voice said. "I'd like to say something."

Bobby Bo watched as Sterling Henderson got to his feet. He was a big man, with coarse features and a shock of startlingly silver hair.

"I'd like to apologize right from the top," Sterling said in a sad voice. "I've tried from day one to rein this woman in, but nothing's worked."

"We all understand your hands have been tied," Bobby Bo said. "I can assure you this little impromptu meeting is not to cast blame but rather to solve a problem. We were perfectly happy letting you deal with it until just today. What's made the Miss Baldwin issue a crisis is her sudden association with this crank doctor who got the media's attention with his ruckus about E. coli."

"It's an association that promises trouble," Everett said. "An hour ago we caught her and the doctor inside our patty room going through our logs."

"She brought the doctor into your plant?" Sterling questioned with horrified surprise.

"I'm afraid so," Everett said. "It gives you an idea of what we're up against. It's a critical situation. We're going to be facing another E. coli fiasco unless something is done."

"This E. coli nonsense is such a pain in the ass," Bobby Bo sputtered. "You know what really irks me about it? The goddamn poultry industry puts out a product that's almost a hundred percent swimming in either salmonella or campylobacter and nobody says boo. We, on the other hand, have a tiny problem with E. coli in what… two to three percent of our product and everybody's up in arms. What's fair about that, will someone tell me? What is it? Do they have a better lobby?"

The hushed jingle of a cellular phone resounded in the silence following Bobby Bo's passionate philippic. Half the occupants in the room reached into their tuxes. Only Daryl's unit was vibrating in sync with the sound. He withdrew to the far corner to take the call.

"I don't know how the poultry business gets away with what they do," Everett said. "But that shouldn't divert our attention at the moment. All I know is that the Hudson Meat management didn't survive their E. coli brouhaha. We have to do something and do it fast. That's my vote. I mean, what the hell did we form the Prevention Committee for anyway?"

Daryl flipped his phone closed and slipped it back into his inner jacket pocket. He rejoined the group. His face was more flushed than usual.

"Bad news?" Bobby Bo inquired.

"Sure as hell is," Daryl said. "That was my security out at Higgins and Hancock. Marsha Baldwin is there right now going through USDA records. She came in flashing her USDA card, saying she was there to make sure federal rules were being followed."

"She's not authorized even to be in there," Sterling asserted indignantly. "much less look at any records."

"There you go," Everett said. "Now I don't even think it's a topic for debate. I think our hand is forced."

"I'd tend to agree," Bobby Bo said. He gazed out at the others. "How does everyone else feel?"

There was a universal murmur of assent.

"Fine," Bobby Bo said. "Consider it done."

Those who were sitting stood up. Everybody moved toward the door that Bobby Bo threw open. Laughter and music and the smell of garlic wafted into the room.

Except for Bobby Bo, the men filed out of the room and went in search of their consorts. Bobby Bo went to his phone and placed a quick internal call. Hardly had he replaced the receiver, when Shanahan O'Brian leaned into the room.