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Authors: Jonathan Javitt

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Gwen turned the ignition key and backed out of her parking space, attempting to parse the matter in her thoughts as she began her drive back to Garrett Park. How could Snyder possibly know of her call to Jan—and know so quickly … unless she was under surveillance. She was alone when she made the call, and even if a secretary had overheard her, the subject of her conversation was routine. She was conducting medical business, which is why the FDA cut her a paycheck every two weeks. The only logical conclusion was that someone didn’t want her investigating Marci Newman’s death.
She would tell Jack about Snyder’s e-mail as soon as she walked through the front door. If anyone knew about being under surveillance, it was a former Secret Service agent.
No. That was the one thing she definitely couldn’t do. Jack would say that enough was enough. He would tell her to back away—safety first—and then he’d recite a dozen other maxims. Being a former special agent, he would probably do some snooping, but he wouldn’t bend over backwards to find out why Snyder was unhappy. On the contrary, he would be secretly elated that the agency itself stamped the death of Marci Newman out of bounds as a legitimate avenue of inquiry. He’d also be supremely pissed that she had called Jan Menefee in the first place.
The deep green foliage of a late summer afternoon drifted by the car window. She had to confide in somebody. But who could help her? Perhaps more importantly, whom could she really trust?
I can trust Mark
. The thought surprised her as soon as it came to her. Mark Stern? Was there some cosmic reason why she’d read his byline just yesterday? Was there even a bigger cosmic reason why he was in Washington at all? Gwen wasn’t sure she believed in such things, but she also didn’t believe in accidents. It wasn’t an accident that she flipped open the paper the way she did last night. Maybe she needed to know that Mark was there.
And regardless of how she felt about their time as lovers or Mark’s ability to ever join the adult segment of the human race, she knew one thing absolutely—she could trust him with anything. But should she contact him? If she did, she wouldn’t be able to let Jack know for any number of reasons. Did she really want to do this behind Jack’s back?
No, she didn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
19
 
Two days after Edward Karn’s nomination had been expertly torpedoed, Senator Henry Broome appeared on
Washington One-On-One
, a weekly political talk show hosted by Keith Caldwell, preeminent pundit of the airwaves. The show was taped at WETA studios for airing the following Sunday.
The senator from Hawaii settled into the chair opposite Caldwell, his large body still in fighting trim thanks to workouts at the Senate’s private gym. He was relaxed. Caldwell was no pit bull, but he had a reputation for being politely aggressive. Henry, however, had become quite a rhetorician over the years, and his seamless segues from one topic to another were more than sufficient on most occasions to change the subject of conversation or, in true political fashion, obfuscate it altogether. Henry knew what Caldwell’s agenda would be once the cameras started to roll and he regarded the coming show as nothing more than a sparring match.
“Three, two, and one!” announced a voice in the dark recesses of the studio.
“Good morning, and welcome to
Washington One-On-One
,” the fifty-two-year-old Caldwell spoke in a halting manner reminiscent of David Brinkley. “Today our guest is Senator Henry Broome of Hawaii who, besides being chair of the Senate Committee on Agriculture, is also a member of the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor & Pensions.” Caldwell then added the signature line he used at the beginning of each taping: “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
The host promptly turned in his chair to face Henry squarely.
“Senator Broome, Washington is talking about little else than the Senate’s refusal to confirm Dr. Edward Karn as commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration. It’s believed by most observers that your influence was responsible for Karn’s defeat. Would you say that’s an accurate assessment?”
Henry smiled affably and crossed his legs. “Not entirely, Keith. I’m only one member on the committee, and the vote of the committee naturally involved my twenty colleagues.”
Henry’s opening gambit was always to answer a question as simply and as briefly as possible, offering up the obvious in order to give him time to read his interviewer.
“But your questioning of Dr. Karn was ‘grueling, malicious, and partisan’ to quote Mark Stern of the
Washington Post
.”
“I’m disappointed that Mr. Stern can’t see past his own biases, Keith.” Henry looked straight at the camera and smiled. “Karn’s defeat was very painful to me personally. I’ve known Eddie since college and have always thought of him as a friend, but friendship has to take a backseat when the needs of the nation are at stake. I regret that Mr. Stern is unable to make that distinction. I bear no malice whatsoever toward Dr. Karn. What Mark Stern calls partisan and malicious is nothing more than thoughtful examination of important issues. Perhaps Stern’s fame has gone to his head, causing him to lose the objectivity that is so essential to his profession.”
Henry was warming to the subject—and to his imagined audience. He’d gone on the offensive while simultaneously voicing his disdain for liberal reporters. He would love to have gone further, labeling Stern as a former pot-smoking hippie, but a shrewd politician knew where to draw the line. He possessed plenty of information about the redoubtable Mark Stern that he could discreetly leak if the
Post
’s latest wonder boy became too vociferous about matters Henry considered off-limits for public discussion.
“Besides,” Henry continued, preempting Caldwell’s next question, “my constituents elected me because I’m a conservative—not ashamed of that, Keith—and it would be irresponsible of me to support someone like Dr. Karn for an important position if he can’t be trusted to stay within the legal guidelines that Congress, in its wisdom, has established for the FDA.”
“Elaborate on that, if you would, Senator. Why would Dr. Karn’s confirmation as FDA commissioner present such a danger to the country? His record and credentials are impeccable.”
“I’m not calling Dr. Karn’s credentials into question, Keith. He’s done exemplary work as an oncologist, but we need to understand the precise role of the FDA in the regulatory process, which is something the good doctor fails to grasp. Among other things, Dr. Karn is against genetically modified foods, or GMOs. So let me give you the simple facts regarding the regulatory process governing GMOs. The EPA evaluates a genetically modified plant for environmental safety. The USDA determines if the plant is safe to grow. Lastly, the FDA decides whether or not the plant is safe for consumption in food products.”
“I believe the FDA has a slightly larger mandate than that, Senator,” interjected the liberal Caldwell with a hint of sarcasm, attempting to throw Henry off balance. “I think you may be simplifying the role of the FDA considerably.”
Henry was unfazed. “Keith, I think I see where you’re going with this, but we have to compare apples to apples, oranges to oranges. It’s certainly true that the FDA is charged with ensuring the safety of pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and other chemical agents that could impact our health—not just food products per se. When it comes to food, however, the FDA is charged with guaranteeing the safety of processed foods, not whole foods and crops, once they enter the food chain, Keith. The FDA regards GM crops as natural foods.”
“Such as?”
“Let’s look at corn versus cornflakes. Cornflakes is a packaged food that has undergone a great deal of processing. An ear of corn is a whole food, Keith. Cereal is a food product, while fresh corn, right off the stalk, is, beyond any doubt, a natural food. Historically, the FDA’s stance has been that GM foods are equivalent—and let me repeat that—they are equivalent to natural foods and therefore not subject to regulation.”
“Don’t you think that we’re counting how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, Senator Broome? Let’s be candid. Whether we modify a food product before or after it’s harvested is of little consequence, isn’t it? I think your argument, Senator, begs the question.”
“In that case, Keith, I need to beg your indulgence, for we need to start at the beginning. Do you like Silver Queen corn?”
“Yes, I do. My whole family does. When Silver Queen comes in every year, my children can’t get enough of it. Sometimes they even eat it raw.”
Caldwell had let his guard down, and Henry was ready to go in for the kill.
“That’s my point, Keith. Just about everyone likes it, and yet 350 years ago, it didn’t exist. What the Pilgrims found in the New World was Indian maize, which isn’t sweet at all and is today relegated to decorating homes at Thanksgiving. It’s really not considered edible. After a few centuries of genetic modifications through simple farming techniques, however, we have a completely different product.”
“Wait just a minute, Senator. Are you equating the planting of corn with genetic modification?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Keith, because that’s what genetic modification is. People regard it as some evil, arcane process, when the reality is that crossing one plant with another to select a certain trait has been done for thousands of years. Just as dog breeds have changed over time because breeders chose to emphasize longer noses or shorter tails, humans have, both knowingly and unknowingly, attempted to maximize the expression of plant genes to affect taste, color, size, and numerous other traits that we desire. Scientifically, we say that farmers or breeders are selecting a dominant gene over a recessive one. Whenever you select the healthiest animals to mate, you’re engaging in genetic modification in an attempt to ensure that the most desirable genes are reproduced in the offspring. What could be more natural? It really makes no difference whether you select a gene in the lab or on the farm.” Henry had a good memory, good enough to remember certain facts that his buddy Jamie Robinson recited way back in 1977.
“I’ll concede that your argument has some merit, Senator,” stated Caldwell, “but then why are European populations so upset about genetically modified foods?”
“It’s a complex question, Keith, but basically it boils down to politics. European countries have experienced two food-related scares in the last few years: mad cow disease in Britain and dioxin-tainted foods in Belgium, but neither case has anything to do with genetic modification. These concerns, while valid, undermined consumer confidence, and many European governments used sleight-of-hand to divert attention to imported American products so as not to take responsibility for problems originating on their own turf. The reality is that, after fifty years of progress in agriculture, we in the United States can bring better food to market than European nations can. Then they criticize us sharply because they must otherwise either pay for our seed stock or, as is the case now, suffer the consequences and produce fewer crops. I might add that the crops they do produce are not high-yield or disease-resistant in a good many cases. The truth is that European farmers have been compensated with subsidies and restrictive import policies because of their governments’ irrational attitudes toward agricultural technology. That doesn’t give their governments the right to expect farmers here in the U.S. to use the same methods as they did in the 1950s. It’s just not a realistic expectation, Keith.”
Henry reveled in the disappointment evident in Caldwell’s expression. Few
One-On-One
guests were able to disarm the show’s suave, well-prepared host so easily.
“I’m not sure everyone agrees with you, Mr. Chairman, but you’re certainly well-versed in agricultural matters, both domestic and abroad. Do you have any final statements?”
“Only that American farmers work hard and deserve a lot more credit than they get. In conjunction with science, they help our country produce the safest food in the world.”
Keith Caldwell swiveled back to face the camera. “Senator Broome, thank you very much for stopping by today. In just a moment, we’ll be joined by Senator Ted Kennedy, a ranking member of the Judiciary Committee, who will discuss Supreme Court nominations.”
“Clear!” somebody called from behind the cameras. “Ready for segment two!”
Henry removed his lapel mike, stood, and shook hands with Caldwell. He passed Senator Kennedy on the way out, but the Massachusetts legend said nothing, and he left the studio feeling more than satisfied with his performance.
Henry got into his Caddy and sped toward the Hotel Rouge, where Roberta Chang would be waiting for him, dressed in a negligee and holding two fluted glasses of Dom Perignon.
Henry would be back home with his wife and family in time for dinner.
20
 
Gwen was fixing grilled cheese sandwiches late Saturday morning when the cell phone on the kitchen counter chimed, the melody a ridiculously fast rendition of the first fifteen notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
“Hello?”
“It’s Jan, Gwen. I’ve got some results for you, and they’re gonna knock your socks off.”
Gwen looked at Jack, who was sipping a cup of coffee and perusing the morning paper at the kitchen table. A tool belt hung on the coat rack behind him since he intended to start on the basement after lunch. Initially, all he needed to do was clean up and take some measurements, but he certainly seemed to be starting this project with gusto.

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