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  SILENCE HER

  DOUGLAS FETTERLY

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Douglas Fetterly. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  ISBN 10: 978-0-9991621-0-1

  ISBN 13: 978-0-999162-0-1

  Story Merchant Books

  400 S. Burnside Avenue #11B

  Los Angeles, CA 90036

  http://www.storymerchant.com

  http://www.storymerchantbooks.com

  Cover Design by IndieDesignz.com and artist Chris Steitz

  Chapter number font: Love My Tattoo, by Mirko Carcereri

  Interior body font: Bookman Old Style

  https://www.facebook.com/Silence-Her-1908626176016781/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my Sweetie

  —my wife, Sheryl Shook—

  whose unwavering support,

  wisdom, and love made

  this book possible.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My appreciation goes out to the following people (and everyone who continually expressed support along the way): Ellen Anderson, James Center, and Stacey Cook for their editing, suggestions, and friendship throughout the process; Ken Atchity and the staff at Story Merchant Books for their unwavering support; Pam Houston for leading an enlightening fiction workshop at the Aspen Writers’ Foundation Summer Words Conference; Michael Neff of Algonkian Conferences for his provocative direction; Debbie Zakerski, Karen Kunz, Margaret Sanders, Teena Michael, Margherita Molnar, Keith Thompson, Diane Carlson, the Clevelands, the Yamashiros, and Dave Raney for checking in along the way; Chris Steitz for his artistic support; my wise and delightful sister, Gretchen, who continually inspires me; daughter Angie for her loyalty, and her thoughtfulness in giving writing books to me when I began my literary journey twenty-five years ago; son Doug for his inquisitiveness, forthright comments, and love ; daughter Mary for her spirited encouragement; and to Sheryl—my muse—for the abundant joy, inspiration, and love she brings to my life.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  Letter to the Reader

  Work Cited

  Author

  Silence Her

  1

  Lishan Amir sat at her desk, feeling pleased. She began re-reading her exposé against Senator Libby and his cronies, the ink on the newsprint barely dry. Sitting with legs crossed between her charcoal knit pencil skirt and black, stylized Harley boots, she raised her head, surprised, when her desk lamp unexpectedly shut off.

  She looked up to see Executive Editor Jerry Hanson, the lamp’s pull chain still in his grip. His other hand held the afternoon edition, a Page A1 headline circled in red. “Truth Be Known: Senator and FDA Collude With Food Kingpin to Seduce Public.”

  “Got a minute?” Jerry asked as though there were a question mark. But it was merely rhetorical. His face was contorted and taut.

  His Xanax must be wearing thin, Lishan thought.

  “Of course, Jerry.” Standing, she smoothed and checked her button-back blouse. She liked the raglan sleeves, but the ecru color was a little too revealing for a close-up meeting with a guy she couldn’t stomach. Still, it would have to do.

  Jerry was already heading to his office.

  It was early afternoon on Monday, well after The Washington Mirror had hit the streets. Lishan’s exposé had made the front page. She always did enjoy a little hyperbole when exposing dishonest CEOs and government officials.

  Still, she had been mildly surprised when it passed through the city desk editor’s hands unchanged. The various editors in the hierarchy had strict orders against certain brands of controversy, nearly always finding a conservative replacement before the paper went to press. Jerry was unbending in this arena, especially if the official under fire was a deep-pocket business ally.

  Lishan continued to push back against these restrictive guidelines. Today she was in luck. It was the city desk editor’s last day. For some reason, Jerry had let this editor handle final-page signoff on her last day of work. It must have been an oversight—perhaps one-too-many prescription hits.

  “Tell me where the fu…where you think you’re headed with this truth thing of yours, or where you were headed,” Jerry barked as they entered his office. “It’s a fun read, Lishan—a departure from your usual torturous writing. But we don’t want to make Senator Libby out to be an immoral servant of the people, now do we, like when you wrote about our country's new president and dissed him for what you called his ‘"sophomoric referrals to fake news?.’"" Again, not a question.

  Jerry reached out on his desk and straightened the photo of the president—the inscription, "You and I both know the real news."

  “And Conner, whom you’ve accused, along with our beloved senator and the FDA, is an outstanding CEO. If it weren’t for Conner, our country would have a food shortage, not to mention a lack of pharmaceuticals!”

  Jerry fidgeted a furrow along the hardwood floor. Years of pacing was caving it in, like a piece of old plywood left out in the sun. Breathing deeply to regain composure, he continued, “I think they’re doing a fine job.”

  Jerry, self-described in his adulterous singles ads as a handsome DWM, had an imposing presence in the newsroom. A head taller than Lishan’s five foot eight, he was a towering figure, barely fitting through the X and Y of the doorframe. He wasn’t what most would call fat. Hefty was more like it. His flattop hairstyle was military-fashion, short enough to allow sunburn. The office grapevine pegged him as a fascist, acting as though he were in command of a battalion of missionaries. He had the subtlety of a bouncer. Handsome he was not.

  Lishan stood near the door, neither intimidated nor overly confident. She found th
is to be the best stance when faced with Jerry’s self-righteousness.

  “Jerry, I’m a journalist. I get the news out, good or bad. That’s my job. Facts are facts.”

  “You’re forgetting a major component. We’re also a business. Profit and loss statements complete with advertisers, and government officials who audit our books. Remember the IRS last year? Remember? And if you could think outside of your liberal-minded box, you would know that our senators are working hard to provide democracy for the people.”

  Lishan had heard it all before. He pressed—hard—any time she or any other reporter stepped on one of his friends’ toes. The question was, how far could she push?

  And, yes, the IRS. How could she forget? She saw Jerry as the one needing a reminder—the investigation, the audit narrowing to Jerry’s court with his undeclared monetary connections to certain government officials. At mention of the IRS, Lishan just shook her head. She knew what the real issue was.

  “Are we going to be true to the people, or just print what the Associated Press gives us alongside recipes for Grandma’s favorite pudding, next to Home Mart ads? Senator Libby has broken nearly every promise to the public. He wasn’t well liked to begin with. The promises, and likely some kickbacks, were the only ticket that got him elected. And Conner Foods, Conner Pharmaceuticals, do you have any idea how many people have become sick or died at Jack Conner’s hands? The toxic fillers and empty calories he gets away with in the foods he manufactures? The drugs that never should have been fast-tracked through the system? Do you...” Lishan stopped to take a breath. “We can’t, in journalistic faith, support this.”

  Jerry’s face seemed to expand, pressing outward against the invisible seams that held his face together. He didn’t like Lishan, but he respected her work. He knew she was a top-notch reporter. She had a following. The problem was that Lishan was often too damned good, probing into matters that could cause trouble for Jerry’s friends, and Jerry.

  “Yes, Lishan, we can. And we will.”

  “What? Support hypocrisy? Support decisions that favor liars and cheats and their high-paid lobbyists, at the expense of the public?”

  “No, dammit! We are true to the people.”

  “Like the time you put a spin on the RU-486 ‘morning after’ story, the day after Bush fired Jane Henney? We made it look like Henney got fired for defying FDA ethics. Ethics my glutes, Jerry. Everybody—and I mean everybody—knows it was because she violated the political football. She was following the guidelines. And as far as this newspaper, as the story goes...”

  “I know how the story goes.”

  “As the story goes,” Lishan pressed, her voice elevated, “you had been in support of Henney, until Bush’s press secretary paid you a friendly visit. Night and day, Jerry. One day you’re a professed representative of the people. The next, you’re a born-again...”

  The editor slammed his fist on the desk, knocking his NRA trophy on its side.

  “Don’t question my principles, Ms. Amir!”

  Jerry could hear himself lose control, his voice carrying beyond the walls of his office. He straightened to his full height, closing the short gap to where Lishan stood.

  The trophy survived his temper, but Lishan didn’t feel so solid as Jerry charged her. Her instinct for self-preservation would have had her bolting out the door, but then she might as well bone up on writing about which kind of chocolate made the best ganache.

  Jerry slowed, taking a deep breath. Another. He sidled up to Lishan, putting his arm halfway around the reporter’s shoulders. He didn’t want to add to his list of incidents with the publisher. It could be his last.

  “Lishan, you’re a good reporter,” he said, patronizing. “A troublemaker sometimes, but good. We both know this. I won’t beat around…well, you know. There’s so much injustice in this world. We can’t take it all on.” Jerry had eased into a gentle, grandfatherly voice. “Aren’t you twenty-three?”

  “No, Jerry. I’m half your age—fifty-four, aren’t you?”

  Jerry stifled a bristle. He had lost that round of jabs, knowing he looked older than his forty-six years. “I’m asking you, as a compadre, to just cool it. Don’t be so offensive. They are all good people.”

  Jerry gave a couple of pats and then removed his arm. As he opened the door, it was clear the meeting was over.

  “Lishan, think about it. Oh, and one more minor item. Your insubordination has finally nominated you for the probation list. Sign here. If you don’t toe the line for the next six months, beginning today, I have the authority to purge you from my employee list—and we both know I would be devastated if I was forced to do that. You should take tomorrow off.”

  Lishan looked Jerry straight in the eye. “You were born before frontal lobotomies were outlawed, weren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind, Jerry. Just never mind.”

  As Lishan walked off, Jerry’s assistant, Maria, called out to him. “Senator Libby is on the phone.”

  Jerry grimaced as he looked out at Lishan, who merely turned her head and smiled at the mention of Jerry’s golf buddy.

  Heading to her desk, Lishan could hear her desk phone ringing. She picked it up just before it transferred to voice mail.

  “This is Lishan.”

  The reply followed what felt like a measured pause. “Yes, I know.” The gruff male voice said nothing more.

  “Hello?” Lishan prompted, unsure of the caller’s intent. She waded through the silence for what seemed like a dozen heartbeats. Before she could prompt again, the caller hung up.

  2

  19th Street NW, D.C.

  The sound of breaking glass came from Jack Conner’s posh office. It was the $2,000 mirror he used to frequently inspect his tall, 220-pound European-American frame and the shaved head he felt gave him a look of power. Six months prior, when Charlotte first took the Executive Secretary position, she would have sprung up to attend to his needs.

  But no longer. Conner was known for his anger. It was no surprise when his fury would send one of his arms in a sweeping movement across his desk, clearing everything in sight onto the floor. Important documents, a half-empty wine glass—it didn’t matter. Charlotte once found a journal, buried in the bottom drawer of her desk, with entries from the previous six secretaries. The journal was filled with comments on his violence. It was never physical toward the employees, but there were emotional hits. Charlotte questioned how long she would last. The six secretaries spanned a mere two years.

  “Who in Christ’s name does she think she is?” he spewed, from a face that had borne years of tantrums, as he reread Lishan’s article. One hour prior, he had stepped from his private jet to his limo, then straight into his office. A filtered stack of mail and newspapers, accumulated in his five-day absence, lay scattered on his desk. His Caribbean junket, sponsored by Senator Libby, hadn’t tempered his peevish nature in the slightest.

  Conner, fifty-six, as President and CEO of both Conner Foods and Conner Pharmaceuticals since their inception eighteen years ago, was not accustomed to losing. He bore an ego the likes of a few scornful politicians Charlotte had met—self-absorbed and contemptuous. His MBA piggybacked on his law degree, which gave him a solid sense of what he needed to achieve his goals and how to stop those in his way.

  He buzzed Charlotte.

  “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me about this article? I don’t care if it was just hot off the press. Damn, Ch...”

  The intercom monologue was drowned by a loud, screeching sound.

  “What the…?”

  “It’s okay, sir. If you lower your voice, it doesn’t happen. Feedback, I think.” Conner was unaware of the small device, from a game and joke shop, that created the screech. A previous occupant of Charlotte’s desk had picked it up, finding it extremely useful in temporarily halting Conner’s tirades.

  “Damn! Can’t we get that fixed?”

  “It doesn’t seem so, sir. We’ve replaced the entir
e intercom twice. It must be something in your voice. I don’t believe it happens when you speak in a normal tone.” Charlotte had to hold back a laugh.

  “I am speaking in a normal tone.” Conner cut off the conversation, leaving Charlotte to her work.

  His office occupied the top floor of a window-encased high-rise overlooking the heart of D.C. As his empire expanded, early on, million by billion, it became increasingly clear he needed to be near the decision-makers that would affect his businesses. Senators and various agency administrators topped the list.

  Conner’s father had been a senator—in fact, previously the richest senator in U.S. history.

  His father hadn’t amassed his fortune by being kind. Treatment of his only son was no exception. Conner tragically internalized, at a young age, that getting what he wanted—wealth and power beyond imagination—required ruthless means. He had mastered the paradigm flawlessly.

  Conner had no real interest in oil or any fickle market. That left, in his mind, food and drugs. The world needed both, he felt, prompting the creation of his two multi-billion-dollar businesses.

  Over the years, only two other power mongers dared challenge Conner’s CEO status. The first became institutionalized in short order, dying several years later. A drug habit was the story that surfaced, but only Conner and his abettor knew the truth. The newspapers made light reference to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The second disappeared altogether, with only whispers linking it to Conner. No body, no crime.

  Charlotte buzzed the intercom. “Commissioner Schuler is on line one, Mr. Conner. Shall I tell him you’re unavail…”

  “Arthur, did you get that box of Caribbean rum I sent you from the islands?” Conner had no patience for anyone, let alone his secretary whose sentences were always too long for him.

  “Yes, Jack. Thanks. But, dammit, that’s not why I called. How in the hell can I get Congress to fund my requests when you keep giving the press fuel to make me look bad?” Schuler was furious. “You told me those last Fast Track documents for that whatchamacallit drug were legit. That Amir reporter said I allowed my agency to cut corners for Conner Pharmaceuticals, and now people are getting sick. Dammit, Jack.”