The List (37 page)

“Don’t be ageist,” I said. “He was quite articulate and had two different-color eyes.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Well, eye color aside, he said that the people who were there when Reader died were
Jeffrey Diaz and some other guys.”

“Really? We knew that already.”

“There had to be others,” I said. “There is no way that only five people plus Drew
Reader worked on a night shift in a huge plant.”

“Well, how many people work there?” asked Payton.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess we could go there and ask.”

“Adrienne. It’s not exactly the same world it was in Upton
Sinclair’s day. We can’t go undercover, start chopping up cows, and then write an
exposé.”

I had thought about interviewing someone from the plant’s management who had been
there in 1989, but in the end I decided it was too dangerous. If I said I was a newspaper
reporter from Washington, they would surely think I was looking into Senator Stanton,
and it would get back to him as fast as someone could dial ten numbers. I couldn’t
ask around.

Payton and I soon realized that what we could do was go there and buy something. Meat.
Lots of it.

“I can buy it, and your name won’t be anywhere,” said Payton once we were headed toward
the plant. “My last name isn’t even Brown anymore.”

Judging from the size of the plant, there had to have been more than five people there
when Drew Reader died. The complex was enormous. Odious and enormous.

“Oh look,” I said, pointing. “You can see all the cows, just waiting to die.”

“Of course you can. Where did you think they would be?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I just didn’t think we would have to see them.”

“Don’t be such a hippie,” said Payton, pointing toward a door.

“We shouldn’t be here, Payton. It’s a bad idea.” I stopped talking when my voice started
to warble. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Oh shut up,” said Payton, not even turning around behind her to see if her only sister
was okay. “You don’t feel anything in your bones. Only old people feel things in their
bones and that’s just osteoporosis.”

“But Payton, we’re probably going to get arrested, or shot. It happens all the time
near the border.”

This time she turned around.

“Adrienne! We’re not crawling under barbed wire in the dead of night with cocaine
coming out of our ears. We’re just walking to a place of business. You’re wearing
five-hundred-dollar loafers!” she said, pointing accusingly to my practical Tod’s
fuchsia driving mocs. “I don’t think we’re about to get cuffed and printed.” When
Payton turned back around to lead us into the lion’s den I could hear her asking God
why she was born into a family of cowards.

“What’s our plan exactly?” I asked her, trying to calm down.

“We don’t need one. We have money. We’re just two women who need a large amount of
beef.”

Of course. Two women needing a lot of beef. It sounded like the opening line of an
award-winning XXX movie.

But there was no one there to take Payton’s money that day. The plant was locked,
and the only workers we could find were outside with the animals.

“Are you . . . could you maybe help us?” I asked a man who was throwing feed out for
the huge brown cows. When he answered in Spanish, Payton took over. I thought their
exchange would last about thirty seconds, but five minutes later, I was still standing
in the middle of cow death row while Payton babbled on. Finally I heard her thank
him, and she grabbed me by the arm and led me back to the car.

“Drew Reader wasn’t the only death in that plant,” said Payton, hurrying away from
the field. “That guy, he wasn’t here in ’89, obviously, and didn’t know anything about
Reader’s death, but he said just three years ago someone died when a forklift fell
on him.”

“Oh Jesus, that’s terrible.”

“I know. He was driving up a ramp, and the forklift tipped and he was crushed by it.
Other workers used another forklift to pick up the one crushing him, but it was too
late.”

“Was this in the news?” I asked. “I didn’t see anything about it when I was researching
John F. Stanton & Company.”

“I don’t know,” said Payton. “But it doesn’t speak very well for the company, these
accidental deaths. It’s not like they’re swimming with sharks. It should be a safe
enough working environment. Also, there’s five hundred workers here during the week.
At least. And about fifty on at night. That’s what he said, anyway.”

“Did you get a name?”

“I tried. He wouldn’t give it to me. These guys aren’t stupid, and let’s face it,
they can’t all be legal. It’s not the most glamorous job, but it’s a job. Why put
it in jeopardy by accusing your boss of involuntary manslaughter?”

“Well, if there are fifty people here a night, there had to be more than five in 1989.
We should be able to find someone to go on the record.”

Payton and I ate zero meat that day. Even she, resident of meat-loving Argentina,
ordered a grilled cheese when we stopped in a diner to go through our notes.

“You’re aware that we really have nothing from today, right?” said Payton after she
had finished eating. “You talked to one old man who was there when Reader died, but
you didn’t learn anything game-changing. And you can’t really peg that other wrongful
death against Stanton since it was never widely reported. We learned that there were
probably more than five people there when Reader died, but we don’t know who they
were. And we still know nothing about Olivia Reader and Olivia Campo—if they’re the
same person or not. I think we should keep looking tomorrow, but Addy, I think you
have to finish writing this today. You need to get this out even if the only motive
you can come up with is multiple orgasms.”

“But what the hell am I supposed to write, Payton?” I said, trying to stay calm. “I
don’t have enough!”

“You have so much!” said Payton. She was getting angry. “You want more so that you
can feel better about writing it. Just get over your moral dilemma and put it down
on paper. You’re smarter than this. Then you can keep talking to more people here.
It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and we leave in twenty-six hours. You don’t want
to leave here with nothing.”

“Then get out of my way!” I screamed. “Just get out of my way. I appreciate your help,
but you’re not doing anything but making me feel clueless right now.”

So Payton stood up, fighting back angry tears, and left with the car keys in her hand.

I only saw Payton cry twice in high school: once when she lost the state field hockey
championship to a Catholic school in Richmond and the other time at our grandmother’s
funeral in Charlottesville. I remember being surprised that Payton had the ability
to cry over someone. Well, a dead someone. But here she was crying about me. She actually
cared about my career, my future. All my life, I had more bitterness and resentment
toward Payton than I had love. But the percentages were changing quickly.

I was alone in a diner in Ajo, Arizona, trying to piece together a story that I still
wasn’t sure I had the courage to write. I was scared of getting something wrong and
ruining my career, which felt like it was just beginning. And I was petrified of printing
something about one of the most powerful men in the United States government. What
business was it of mine that he was having an affair? So he was a lying sack of shit.
So were plenty of other people. And his family company was a death trap. Big deal.
Why was it falling on me to tell the whole world about it?

I wanted to burn everything I had and crawl back into my cozy cubicle in New York.
People thought I was good at my job up there. I didn’t have anything to prove.

It took ten minutes of resting my head against the warm linoleum table and two waitresses
asking me if they should call a doctor before I was able to admit to myself that now
I did have something to prove. I did want to break this story and make a name for
myself. The
Capitolist
had gotten under my skin; it hadn’t killed me yet, which must have meant that I was
going crazy and that I was stronger. I was a better reporter now and one with a functioning
backbone.

“Is that the girl from the cactus park?” A gentle old voice woke me from my haze.

“Well, hi,” I said, smiling at Michael O’Brien. “It is. I’m just here working on the
article I was telling you about.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s going very well,” he said. “Why don’t you buy me a cup of
coffee instead?”

“Okay,” I said, signaling to the waitress for another cup of coffee.

“My shift is over,” said O’Brien, smiling. Now that we had escaped the glaring sun,
I could see that he had two gaping holes where teeth should have been. “I don’t want
you to think I’m playing hooky now.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said, pushing the little metal pot of cream toward him.

“You still walking around town asking people what happened to Drew Reader all those
years ago?”

“Not really,” I said. “I only asked one more person since I asked you. I should be
asking a whole lot more, but I thought you would be a good person to start with.”

O’Brien picked up his cup unsteadily and took a sip, spilling all over the table.
His hands, covered in liver spots, put the cup down, and he watched me clean up the
mess with some flimsy napkins.

“They always making these cups so heavy,” he said. “I don’t understand it. They should
be thinner.”

“I think you’re right,” I said.

He looked up from his drink and stared right at me. “I think you’re right, too,” he
said.

He did? He thought I was right? About what exactly? I looked around me to make sure
I wasn’t part of some National Park Police entrapment scheme.

“You do?” I said, my heart racing. “You think I’m right about Drew Reader? His daughter,
Olivia?”

“Just slow down now,” he said. I helped him transfer his coffee from the thick ceramic
mug into a lighter Styrofoam cup. “I just said, I think you’re right, and that’s all
I’m going to say.”

I watched him drink from a small plastic water glass, his hands still shaking, and
imagined him working in a meat-processing plant for forty-three years. I hoped there
was a special, relaxing, machinery-free place in heaven for that man.

“I wish you would say more,” I said, my voice tired and strained. “I’m afraid I don’t
have much to go on right now. Just a hunch and well, a few other things, but mostly
a hunch.”

“Lot of things start out just a hunch,” he replied. “Who else you gonna talk to while
you’re here?”

“Who else should I talk to?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just looked off into the distance with a content expression. “You
want some pie?” he asked. “We got some real good pie down here.” He looked longingly
at a rotating glass box full of pies.

No, I didn’t want a pie. What I wanted him to do was say, “Olivia was like a daughter
to me, here is her photo. It’s yours to keep. Make a few copies if you would like.”

Instead I said, “Sure, let’s have pie.”

I wiped off my face, which O’Brien pretended not to notice was burnt and sweaty, and
asked the waitress for an entire blueberry pie.

“Where you from again?” O’Brien asked between bites. “You say?”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “I’m from Virginia. Just outside Washington, D.C. I work up
there for a newspaper. A pretty important one.”

“It’s nice up there?”

“Well . . . ” I thought about it for a second. “It is pretty nice. Kind of tough,
though. A lot of people want a lot of things only a few can have.”

“But that’s everywhere, isn’t it? Everyone wants money, but not a lot of people can
have it.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You should move down here,” he said, eating the pie with a spoon. “It’s always warm.”

“That must be nice.”

He hit at the crust with his spoon, gave up when it wouldn’t budge, and started eating
it with his hands.

“So, who else you talking to? You never said.”

I uncrumpled the piece of paper in my pocket and looked at the name and addresses
on it. “Travis Turner,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“Sure do,” said O’Brien with pie flakes on his mouth. “I went to his funeral just
last year.”

Wonderful. Absolutely peachy. I had one potential source who was missing and most
likely didn’t speak English, another who was dead, and my most reliable source was
just using me for pie money.

“I’d like to thank you for this pie,” said O’Brien, standing up with the help of the
table edge.

“It’s nothing, really,” I said, leaning down and writing my phone number on an unused
napkin. “Here.” I handed it to him. “If you change your mind and decide you have more
to say.”

“That ain’t happening,” he said. “But I will let you walk me to my car. How’s that
sound?”

“It sounds just fine,” I said. I took his arm and walked him out to his Buick LeSabre.

“I’m not worried about you,” he said after I helped him with his seat belt. “You’ll
be all right. I’ve got a feeling about these kinds of things.”

He started to drive away but stopped and rolled down his window.

“Drew Reader’s little girl doing okay?” he asked me. “Olivia was it?” His car rumbled
from old age.

“That was my question for you,” I told him.

“That so? Well, now that you mention it, I guess he did have a daughter.”

“Do you know where she is?” I asked. “It would really help me if you did.”

“ ’Fraid not. Just remember her being a sweet little girl. Good luck now.” And with
that he drove off at a snail’s pace.

Standing in front of the dusty diner parking lot, I took out my phone and called Payton.

“Tell me you’re calm now and I’ll pick you up,” she said, as if speaking to an unruly
teen.

“I’m calm now,” I said. “I’m calm, and I think that Michael O’Brien knew Olivia Reader.
He didn’t say anything really helpful—like her name now being Campo—but he almost
did. He said ‘Drew Reader’s little girl doing okay?’ Which basically translates into
‘I knew Drew Reader’s daughter, care about her welfare, but haven’t seen her in a
long time.’ ”