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I turned and pounded the boards to where I’d parked.
*****
I started the car and joined the flow of Coastal Highway traffic. Was it safe to assume that Billy Ray’s male friends—Curtis Little and Dwayne Sutterman—wouldn’t give me the time of day? No, but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. I turned into a strip mall featuring a coffee shop that advertised Wi-Fi access.
I settled in with a cup of black coffee and turned on the laptop. After opening the browser, I checked my email. My inbox was crammed with messages—mostly junk I could read later—however, one message caught my eye. Someone named Amber from the Farmworker Protection League had responded to my request for information.
The message read: Feel free to come by our offices so we can talk. The email had a phone number in the signature line.
I let out a breath and almost smiled. At last. One person in this burg willing to talk to me. Perhaps I’d unearth a lead.
I dug out my cell phone and dialed the number.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Farmworker Protection League had offices in an old house in Salisbury. The house had been converted into offices not unlike my own in Laurel.
I entered a small reception area, outfitted in furnishings with utility utmost in mind. A small second-hand wooden reception desk greeted me. Multicolored metal file cabinets lined the far wall. To the right, a sofa covered in a faded red and white floral pattern provided visitors a place to cool their heels.
As I walked in, I glimpsed in profile a slim brunette, late twenty-something woman dressed by L.L. Bean in Capri pants and a striped T-shirt. Engrossed in searching through a filing cabinet drawer, she squatted and bent to her task.
“Amber Moore?” I asked.
She jumped and turned.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Sam McRae. We spoke earlier.”
She smiled and rose. “Right. Come in, come in.”
Amber ushered me into the office where she worked as a summer intern at FPL. She offered me coffee or water. I declined and explained my interest in Marshall Bower.
“Oh, he’s an interesting character, all right. Let’s talk.”
Thank God, I thought.
“So, where’d you study law?” she asked.
“University of Maryland.”
“I’ll be starting my third year there this fall,” she said. She indicated a guest chair, taking a seat in a matching one. “It’s nice to meet a fellow Terp.”
I couldn’t help grinning. Could it get much better than this?
“How did you end up here?” I asked.
“Maryland has a great environmental law program. I got interested in agricultural practices—use of pesticides, runoff into the Bay—that kind of thing. So I sought out opportunities to work on those issues and found out about this internship. This makes my second summer at FPL. As I learned more about the agricultural industry, I became aware of a number of other issues. Things you wouldn’t believe. Worker safety problems, immigration issues, and employees working eighty-hour weeks for peanuts. And their living conditions …” She shook her head. “Don’t get me started.”
I thought about doing just that, but chose for the moment to focus on Marshall Bower.
“What can you tell me about Bower Farms and its owner?”
“Well, Marshall Bower got into the poultry business only recently. The really big players, like Purdue and Allen’s, are institutions around here. However, Bower has connections and … I think he may tend to cut corners a little to try to compete with the big guys.”
“Cut corners how?”
Amber clasped her hands and planted her elbows on the armrests. “How much do you know about the poultry industry?”
“Not much.”
