Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.
“Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Charles. “The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?”
“That’s not entirely correct,” said Mrs. Amendola. “You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.”
“So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want,” said Charles.
“That’s not entirely correct either,” said Mrs. Amendola. “We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but that’s the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?”
“Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
“Why don’t we check their paperwork?” said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.
Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.
“We’re going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor,” said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, “so we’re having to tighten security.”
Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminal’s well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in
There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.
“What chemicals are you interested in?” said Mrs. Amendola.
“Benzene, mostly.”
“Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”
“But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”
The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.
Charles lowered his voice. “Can we go back to your office?”
Mrs. Amendola nodded.
Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”
Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.
“My God!” she said when Charles paused.
“Do you have children?” asked Charles.
“Yes!” said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.
“Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me,” said Charles. “And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. I’m sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.”
“You want me to try to get the EPA involved,” said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.
“Exactly,” said Charles, “or tell me how to do it.”
“It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!”
“That’s easy,” said Charles.
“What about some documented proof? Could you get that?”
“I already have the analysis of the pond water,” said Charles.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Amendola. “Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera…
“If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So it’s up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.”
As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.
The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided he’d call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.
Since the Brighton scandal hit the media, security had been tightened at the Weinburger, and Charles had to knock on the massive glass door before it slid open. He was greeted by Roy, the guard, who demanded to see his identification.
“It’s me, Roy,” said Charles, waving his hand in front of Roy’s face. “Dr. Martel.”
“Orders,” explained Roy, with his hand still outstretched.
“Administrative nonsense,” mumbled Charles as he searched for his ID. “What next?”
Roy shrugged, waited to see the card, which Charles stuck two inches away from his face, then ceremoniously stepped aside. Even the usually coy Miss Andrews turned away without honoring him with her usual come-over-and-talk-to-me smile.
Charles ditched his coat, called information for New Jersey, and dialed Breur Chemicals. As he waited he looked around the lab wondering if Ellen was still offended. He didn’t see her and decided she must be in the animal room. At that moment Breur Chemicals answered the phone.
Later Charles admitted to himself he should not have called. He’d already had enough bad experiences that morning to have guessed what it would have been like to try to call a giant corporation with what they would consider a bothersome complaint. Charles was switched over to a low-level man in the Public Relations department.
Rather than try to placate Charles, the man accused him of being one of those unpatriotic nuts whose stupid and unfounded environmental concerns were responsible for putting American industry in a poor competitive position with companies overseas. The conversation degenerated into a shouting match about dumping benzene with Charles saying they were and the man saying they were not.
He slammed the phone down and spun around in a fury, looking for a way to vent his anger.
The door to the corridor opened and Ellen entered.
“Have you noticed?” asked Ellen with irritating nonchalance.
“Noticed what?” snapped Charles.
“All the lab books,” said Ellen. “They’re gone.”
Charles leaped to his feet, scanning his desk, then the countertops.
“There’s no sense looking for them,” said Ellen. “They’re upstairs.”
“What the hell for?”
“After you left this morning, Dr. Morrison stopped in to check on our progress with Canceran. Instead he caught me working with the mice we’d given the mammary cancer antigen. Needless to say, he was shocked that we were doing our own work. I’m supposed to tell you to go to Dr. Ibanez’s office as soon as you appeared.”