Free Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller by Tim Young Page B

health department issue. The Food Safety Inspection Service, or FSIS, ensures the safety of meat, poultry, and egg products. Our aim is to monitor inspections and require that all food items pass inspection with the resources we have.”
    “Resources you have?” the reporter asked.
    Clint stared at the camera and said nothing.
    “Can you elaborate on that, Clint?”
    Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silos. That’s what Clint called them, silos. Every entity to itself, no one working together. But he had been coached on what to say and what NOT to say so he measured his response.
    “Well,” Clint began, “it’s just that we have our job at FSIS, which is ensuring meat is inspected at the federal level. Of course, each state can also oversee inspection for meats that don’t cross state lines. But FSIS doesn’t deal with the restaurants or supper clubs. The local health departments oversee that.”
    “What about the FDA?” the talking head asked.
    “The FDA deals with product labeling, fruit and vegetables. They don’t actually inspect dairy farms, the states do that. But, then again, the FDA must verify that they comply with regulations...does that make sense?” Clint stopped talking and held his best smile, which on camera looked like a perfectly straight line across his lips. Different people, different standards, different agencies, different objectives, no communication. Silos , Clint thought to himself as his face began to redden.
    The producers switched to a split screen with the talking head on one side and the Colberts on the other. Monica was smiling at the camera as if she had been coached or had made a point to Kevin that we must be sure to smile all the time because we won’t know when the camera is on .
    “Mrs. Colbert,” the reporter asked. “What do you think about the fact that neither the food nor the dining establishment is regulated and hasn’t been inspected?”
    “We trust the chefs,” she replied. There was a moment of silence. Kevin’s eyes darted around, seemingly unsure where to focus. Monica concluded that she hadn’t said enough and added, “They’re all James Beard award-winning chefs, you know.”
    The men at the bar looked at one another. “Who the hell is James Beard?”
    The talking head seemed a little surprised by how lax Monica was about food safety concerns. She pressed harder.
    “But—you don’t know where the vegetables, dairy or meat came from? What if the milk is raw and not pasteurized? What if the meat wasn’t inspected? What if wild mushrooms weren’t properly identified?”
    Kevin started to speak, but Monica leaned forward, signaling to Kevin that this was an opportunity for him to sit back and listen. “We all...everyone who goes to these dinners knows that stuff. That’s part of the intrigue, that the chefs can use whatever they want, that they’re not so restricted. One of the best dinners we went to featured Beluga sturgeon caviar and exotic truffles that you can’t legally get here. The chef smuggled them over from France in some diapers that he—” Monica stopped as she realized that her mouth had sped ahead of her mind.
    As Monica spoke the CNN graphic had changed to read “The Last Supper?” The talking head tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a nervous laugh. “You ate food that was wrapped in diapers and smuggled illegally into the country?”
    A few seconds remained in the two-minute segment, but it seemed much longer to Monica. She thought about saying something clever but concluded that she would look best if she just laughed nervously. That’s what she did. The men at the bar laughed hysterically. “Oh man, she paid, what, a few hundred bucks to eat dirty diapers!” The other man chimed in. “Did you see the husband’s face when she blurted that out? No doubt she’ll blame him for that interview when she watches the recording, and he didn’t say a damn thing!”
    Even Blake managed a chuckle, but it was far too real