An insulting threat

CIN's latest project on food safety came out this weekend (See Danger on your Plate at www.cin.ba, clicking on the British flag for English version). This is the absolute best time in the life of an investigative journalist. The work is over, the lawyering and rewriting is finished. Enough time has elapsed since publication in which no screams of LIAR or UNFAIR have been heard that you can let out your breath, and you can just kind of relax for a minute collecting compliments and considering reprint requests.

This story has gotten wider play -- in magazines, on TV and radio as well as newspaper, than any CIN story.

But I'm also happy it's out because now I can relate the story of one of the more unusual threats of my career.

For this project, we bought food from nearly 100 places around three cities and had it analysed at the Veterinary School lab for bacteria. The results were gruesome. So we sent out reporters to talk to the some of the places where we found E. coli, staph and other unwanted stuff in the food. We told reporters not to say where the analysis had been done because we were worried that the vets would get threatening or harassing calls as a result and be reluctant to finish the testing. Of course, we published where and how the testing was done.

So, three reporters --they were scared and went in a pack -- go to see this ice cream shop owner. He's 50 or 60 years old. I was skeptical about the need to fear a middle-aged sweet shop owner, but...

As they describe it, he demanded of Ida, who cannot weigh more than 90 pounds, " Why are you sizing me up? "Have you seen me well? I’m this heavy and tall, have you seen me well?”

Told of the lab results showing basically that there was shit in his food he was furious they would not tell what lab was spreading this lie. He complained that
“My competition wants to destroy me," that he has a wife who lost a leg to sugar-diabetes, that his shop feeds many people, his workers and their families and that his own kids eat his ice cream.

Finally, as he continued to insist we tell him the name of the loab, Ida suggested calling me to ask permission. They got me on my cell phone, but I didn't help because I say no, and tell him to blame me.

He did.

“Tell her that I’ll fuck her mother," he exploded. "I’ll find out who did the analysis, and there's nothing easier than to pay a junkie 20 KM to strike her with a brick.”

He also wanted to know what I looked like and was I hot. Mirza guilelessly explained to me later that he ended that line of questioning simply by telling him how old I am.

OUCH.

I think that hurt more than a brick to the head.