A series of articles in The Toronto Star cited unsanitary conditions and unreported cases of food poisoning at several Toronto restaurants (unlike a few American cities, Canadian cities do not grade restaurants for cleanliness). The following story is based on this series of articles, as well as the deaths of four children who ate undercooked hamburgers at Jack in the Box restaurants in the mid-1990s. It contains subject matter that may be disconcerting to some readers, so the author advises discretion.
John Gage and Roy DeSoto drove along the nearly deserted Mullholland Street, their squad vehicle gliding slowly on the asphalt. It was about a quarter to three, and the paramedics were up for close to 20 hours. That wasn’t uncommon in their line of work, especially in a town that was probably as accident-prone as Carson City. But for these men, sleep wasn’t always an option.
For Roy DeSoto, it would be an ordeal. His blue eyes were growing groggy over their lack of rest. They looked soft, fatigued and unable to hold back the tears they produced. But Roy had to concentrate on the road. For Johnny Gage, his partner’s sad silence was telling. He had lost a relative, and her parents were out of town on business. Worse, the child’s father was an executive for the same company that sold her the undercooked burger. How would he react to the bad news that his fast-food chain was responsible for his little girl’s death?
Then, Roy spoke up.
“I never believed that something like this would ever happen in my family,” he said, his voice wavering with tearful emotion. “I always made sure that the patties were cooked properly when I was a manager at Clown Burger back in high school.” Roy shook his head. “Quality control’s gone down the drain everywhere you turn. It seems like nobody cares anymore.”
John replied, “A lot of the guys working at burger joints now are 16- and 17-year-olds who care more about clothes, cars and rock concerts than about food safety.”
“Why does it have to take a few dead children before people realize that something is wrong there? If I had my way, nobody would die after eating something as all-American as a cheeseburger and fries.” Roy guided the squad down Carson Street, past Clown Burger, which had closed for the night only three hours earlier. “I don’t think the kids are to blame so much as their managers. The kids are only doing what they’re told – they only want to keep their jobs.”
The squad backed onto the driveway leading to Station 51. The garage door was opened, allowing the truck to enter the apparatus bay. The Ward-LaFrance engine rested next to the truck, which stopped in front of the kitchen door. “So, what do you want for your midnight snack,” asked Roy. “Chet’s got some leftover wieners and beans in the fridge. I heard they were good.”
“Roy, I have a headache,” replied Johnny. “I don’t feel like eating anything right now. I want to turn in for the night.”
Deep down, Roy suspected that John was getting early symptoms of food poisoning. But anybody could get a headache after enduring seven runs involving children who ate undercooked hamburgers at a fast-food restaurant. Roy was tired, but didn’t feel headachy. He didn’t feel like sleeping that night, so he stepped into the kitchen, turned on the overhead lights, and took out a pot of wieners and beans from the fridge. He scooped two ladles of baked beans and cut-up wieners onto a plate that someone was kind enough to leave for him on the dinner table earlier that evening.
Biting into his dinner, Roy walked slowly to the TV set, hoping to find a station that didn’t sign off for the night. The only station that didn’t air a test pattern at that hour was Channel 9. It aired a rerun of Naked City instead. Roy sat on the black leather sofa, chewing his dinner and trying to drown out his misery with an old TV show.
Still, Roy couldn’t stop tears from falling down his face. He couldn’t eat anymore. So, after putting the dish onto the coffee table, he buried his face in his hands and cried.
The next morning, around half past six, Captain Stanley awoke Roy. Roy was sleeping on the sofa. Henry the dog was sleeping on his legs.
“DeSoto,” he cried, “we need your help.”
Roy arose from his slumber. He yawned behind one of his hands.
Captain Stanley continued, “Two of our guys are sick in the washroom.”
Roy knew the culprit. It was salmonella poisoning. So, being professional about the situation, he stood up and followed Stanley into the locker room. There, Johnny was in one of the washroom stalls, loudly throwing up into the toilet. Chet was seated limply on the bench, looking as pale as a bedroom sheet. Mike and Marco looked on, with a combination of concern and curiosity.
“Cap, we have two Code Nines,” cried Roy. Mike and Marco raced into the apparatus bay, soon returning with the drug box and dispatch unit. They placed the boxes next to Roy, who squatted in front of Chet.
“Roy, I feel lousy,” said Chet, sounding as fatigued as he looked. Roy examined the pupils in his eyes. They were normal. Roy tore a pouch open and took out a fresh thermometer, which he inserted into Chet’s mouth. His temperature was running at 103 degrees – and rising. Chet’s stomach churned and his mouth was filled with a putrid, sour taste. Chet had no choice but to throw up on the locker room floor. Neither Mike nor Marco flinched when they saw their colleague become sick to his stomach.
Captain Stanley heard a telephone ringing. He walked away from the horrible sight. Marco and Mike walked into the washroom stalls, and found Johnny kneeling in front of the toilet once more, throwing up more violently than before.
“Why me,” gasped Johnny. “Why did I have to get sick?”
Roy, who was within his earshot, knew the answer. Johnny ate an undercooked hamburger. But Roy wasn’t the type to add insult to injury, so to speak. Instead, he dispatched the Los Angeles County Fire Department: “We have a still alarm at Station 51 headquarters. Two Code Nines at this address.”
“Squad 51,” replied the dispatcher.
“Ten-four.” Then, Roy dispatched Rampart: “Rampart, this is Squad 51. Could you read me?” But there was no response from Rampart General Hospital. “Rampart, this is Squad 5-1. Could you read me?”
Finally, Kelly Brackett was on line – he had to talk to another parent. A third child died from salmonella poisoning, and Joe Early and Mike Morton were sent home for the night. Joanne DeSoto was on Dixie McCall’s non-emergency line, trying to get a hold of Katie’s parents. But it was no use. The Shoemakers arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport a few minutes ago and were trying to flag a taxi. Neither Scott nor Teresa could ever be mistaken for Uncle Lloyd, who looked and behaved like a hippie even at an opera. Lloyd was Roy’s older brother by four years, a very intelligent man who was the first member of the DeSoto family to go on to college – on scholarship. But once he was in college, he fell into a peer group that made fun of the middle-class pretensions of many of their schoolmates. Soon enough, Lloyd DeSoto became a textbook beatnik, scaring “squares” such as Roy and their two sisters, Penny and Meredith. All three siblings disowned their prodigal brother, who eventually became a L. A. County beach bum after several years in San Francisco.
“Read you loud and clear, 51,” spoke Brackett. “I apologize for the delay.”
“Rampart, I have two victims,” began Roy, speaking through the portable unit. “The first victim is male, approximately 30 years old, 5 foot 6 and 150 pounds. He is suffering from salmonella poisoning. VP is 100 over 70, respiration is 20 and normal, pupils are normal.”
Chet Kelly threw up again – this time, into the garbage bin.
“The first victim has been vomiting and is running a temperature of 103 degrees. He is clammy and weak. The second victim is male, 25, 6 feet tall and 185 pounds. He has been complaining of a headache for several hours before his outbreak of salmonella poisoning. VP is 120 over 90, respiration is 20 and weakening, pupils are normal.”
“Roy,” gasped John, “if I die from this, don’t let Brice ruin your life.”
“Not if I can help it, Junior,” said Roy with assurance. Then, he spoke: “Patient two is also clammy and is vomiting. There are no signs of blood in his vomit.”
“Fifty-one,” said Brackett, “give both victims an IV with D5W, TKO. Transport both victims as soon as possible.”
“10-4.” Roy turned around, and two ambulance attendants arrived with the first of two gurneys. Bending over John Gage, they lifted him to his feet. John laid on the gurney, which was soon wheeled out of the fire station. Before long, the attendants returned with a second gurney, on which Chet laid with much relief. He was also on his way to Rampart General Hospital. So was Roy DeSoto.
The ambulance sped about five blocks to Rampart General Hospital, where Kelly Brackett and Dixie McCall waited. Two treatment rooms were ready for John and Chet.
“Take Johnny to treatment room 2. Chet, to treatment room one,” said Dixie, pointing her finger at the door enclosing treatment room 2. The ambulance attendants wheeled John Gage into that room. Two male nurses helped Chet into the treatment room located across from it. Both men knew what was going on, but wondered whether their violent stomach pains would ever go away. Roy accompanied Johnny into treatment room 2. Even he didn’t know the answer.
At about half past 10, Joanne finally got through to the Edison Hotel, where Scott and Teresa Shoemaker were staying. But the person who answered that phone was an emotionally flat-sounding desk attendant with a slight Queens accent.
“Did Scott and Teresa Shoemaker check into the hotel yet,” asked Joanne.
The desk attendant took a few seconds before responding, “Yes. They checked in at a quarter to eight this morning. They’re at room number 1102. One moment.”
“Well, I am calling long distance,” said Joanne.
“I’m doing my best, ma’am. Now, will you excuse me.”
The phone line went silent for a few moments. Then, a familiar voice answered the call: “Hello?”
“Is this Teresa,” asked her sister.
“This is she. I was watching something on Today on an outbreak of food poisoning at a Clown Burger. I hope you didn’t take the kids to that location.”
“I’m afraid I did,” Joanne said sadly. Roy, who stepped out of treatment room 2, joined her at her side. “That’s what I’m calling you about.”
Teresa’s voice rose with fright. “Jesus,” she responded, “I hope Katie wasn’t one of the three kids who died from eating those awful things.”
“I’m afraid she was.”
The silence on the other end of the line was telling. Roy took the receiver from his wife gently, then spoke into it. “I need to talk to Scott,” he said gently.
“Scott is at Madison Square Garden right now,” sobbed Teresa. “I don’t know how he’ll react to the news. I’m not feeling too well, and Scott’s got a temper.”
“I’m planning to speak to a lawyer,” said Roy. “Joanne and I have considered suing Clown Burger for what happened to Katie and our kids. Christopher’s been treated and released, but Jennifer’s in critical condition and isn’t expected to live without a kidney transplant.”
How could Roy speak in that insensitive fashion? Joanne and Teresa thought that Roy was being uncharacteristically heavy-handed in the way he was handling the food poisoning matter. Being concerned about his children’s well beings was an admirable thing. But seeking legal action against his old employer? This better be good – there were too many frivolous lawsuits being filed by their local district attorney’s office. An outbreak of salmonella cases would never be considered frivolous, especially when three children died when it wasn’t their faults. Would Jennifer be the fourth child to die in this outbreak?
Roy received the information that he gave Teresa from Dr. Brackett, who was monitoring Jennifer’s condition in Dr. Early’s absence. Dr. Early was being called back because another 10 cases of food poisoning were being treated, and his terrific bedside manner around children was needed.
Teresa Shoemaker finally spoke again. Sadly, she remarked, “I’ll try to call Scott at the convention. We were planning to go to Mamma Leone’s for lunch, but there’s so much smog here that he had to cancel the reservations.” Teresa suffered from asthma, and Katie was recently diagnosed with the lung condition.
“It wasn’t your fault for what happened.” Roy’s voice was back to normal.
“Tell Joanne that it wasn’t her fault, either. She could have taken the kids to McDonald’s or Burger King and the same thing would have happened.”
“I will,” said Roy. “Take care. Bye.”
Roy hung up and turned to Joanne. “I’m going back to the station to get changed. I shouldn’t have been up for this long, but it’s been one hell of a night.” His voice sounded fatigued – after all, he only enjoyed two hours of sleep within the last 28 hours. “I need my sleep.”
“I’ll call you later,” said Joanne. The DeSotos didn’t own an answering machine until 1990, so Joanne figured that her husband would sleep soundly as the phone rang. After all, Roy’s sister Meredith – a geriatric nurse at the private Pavilion Hospital – was doing a little off-duty home nursing for Christopher, tempting him with soft foods such as ice cream and root beer.
Once Roy drove home from work, around noon, he noticed Meredith’s orange late-model Gremlin on the driveway. A statuesque, model-like woman wearing Charlie’s Angels red-blond hair stood in front of the door.
“Joanne’s just called,” she began, carrying a quart carton of Breyer’s striped ice cream in her arm. A tiny, limping kitten wearing long brown tabby fur and a popsicle stick on his bad leg rubbed against her ankles. Jennifer found the kitten at the Carson Ravine last week. He was suffering from a broken leg and mewing for dear life, but she and Roy were nursing Popsicle – as he was called – back to health. Popsicle was only six weeks old.
“Is it about Jennifer,” Roy asked, picking Popsicle up gently. He stroked the back of his furry head, cooing, “How’s my little Popsicle doing? Your leg feeling a little better?” Popsicle lifted his tiny paw, gingerly caressing Roy’s face. A little thank you for saving his life.
“I thought that Joanne hates cats,” cried Meredith.
“Well, she does,” smiled Roy, “but Jennifer found this little guy in the ravine during her nature walk with Chris the other day. We couldn’t leave him there like this – either he’d die of starvation or get eaten by other animals.”
“He is cute,” agreed Meredith, before changing the subject: “Jennifer’s condition hasn’t changed since she got admitted. She’s still listed in critical.”
Roy shook his head. “Brackett told me that Jennifer may need a kidney transplant. How are we going to afford it? Our health insurance doesn’t cover organ transplants.”
“There’s always the possibility that Jennifer will recover without one,” assured Meredith. “Doctors aren’t gods, you know.”
Roy followed his sister into the house. In the living room, Christopher was lying underneath a light crocheted blanket, sipping iced tea from a tall glass and watching the noon news on TV. “Hi, dad,” he greeted.
“Hey, tiger,” cheered his father, nudging Christopher lightly around his neck and rubbing his fist playfully against his head. “Aunt Meredith’s treating you well?” He released his son from his grip after Christopher cried, “Ow! Dad! I hate nudgies!”
“Sorry,” wearily smiled Roy. “I’m just glad that you’re home. Are you feeling a little better?”
“And, how,” smiled Christopher, before sipping into more of his iced tea. “We were playing Monopoly just now. She’s bad – she bought Boardwalk and made me broke.”
Meredith’s toothy grin eerily resembled her brother’s. “Listen here, buddy,” she mockingly cried, “Nobody except Aunt Meredith buys the Boardwalk in this house. Not even your dad.”
Roy was paying more attention to the television set that the light-hearted commotion between his sister and his son.
“Five children have died after eating hamburgers at a L. A. County fast-food restaurant,” the anchor announced. “The children, ranging in age from two to nine, were eating hamburgers at Clown Burger at Carson Street within the last two days. The local health department is investigating the cause of this dangerous outbreak of salmonella poisoning.”
Roy snapped at the TV set: “The answer is cut and dry, you bozos. The meat was undercooked!”
“Roy,” said Meredith, who now sat beside her nephew, spoon-feeding him ice cream. “The newsman can’t hear you through the set.”
“I don’t care,” said Roy. “Did Joanne tell you anything about Katie?”
“Well, yes.” Meredith’s cheery voice became more subdued. “She’s dead.” Meredith bowed her head down, looking limply at her lap, and closed her eyes. “She was so young, still very much a baby.”
“I only hope that Scott takes the entire thing well,” said Roy, walking slowly out of the living room. “Johnny and Chet are sick, too. They ate the burgers as well.” Roy knew that Meredith dated Johnny briefly.
“How could those TV people not tell anyone the complete story of what happened at that burger place,” snapped Meredith. “I just got off duty at the Pavilion, and it’s not just kids who are getting sick from eating at Clown Burger. It’s old people, too.”
“They’re only interested in the juiciest sound bites that money can buy,” concluded Roy, who collapsed onto his bed and closed his eyes. He needed some sleep.
The Shoemakers called their New York trip short and flown back to Los Angeles County that night. Two days later, Roy did not report for his shift. He and Joanne attended Katie’s funeral. She was buried that overcast, gloomy afternoon.
Driving home from the wake that was held afterwards, Roy spoke up. He was quiet for the entire day.
“Scott wasn’t talking to me during the wake,” he began.
“Well, it was because of the way you talked to Teresa the other day,” replied his wife.
“Now, Scott is worried that he’d lose his job and his company would suffer greatly because of the negative publicity. Are you really planning to sue Clown Burger for negligence?”
“And wrongful death,” cried Roy. “Joanne, Katie would be alive today if those kids took the time to make sure that the burgers were cooked through. Johnny wouldn’t care one way or the other if his burger’s half-cooked. But I hope he’s learned his lesson about food safety.” Johnny was released from hospital yesterday afternoon. So was Chet.
Joanne’s face still looked unconvinced. "Maybe the Third Amendment guarantees us representation under the law,” she said, “but just because one Clown Burger didn’t make sure that the meat was cooked right doesn’t mean that other restaurants within that chain are the same.”
“I have an idea.”
Roy turned right on Alameda Parkway, where the Los Angeles County Health Department was located. He slammed on the brakes in one of the parking spaces. “Roy, what are you doing,” cried Joanne.
“I’m going to talk to somebody here at the Health Department.”
“The doctors are doing that already at Rampart.”
“I’m a paramedic,” said Roy. “I’m the one treating those cases before they get the proper medical care.”
Roy raced into the building. He found a department reading COUNTY HEALTH INSPECTION RECORDS, then stepped behind the doors enclosing it. “I’m looking for health inspection records for Clown Burger, 898 Carson Street,” requested Roy.
“I’m sorry,” said the clerk, a young woman who appeared to be working between college semesters. “Health records are not available to the public.”
“I’m not just any member of the public,” cried Roy. “I’m a paramedic at the Los Angeles County Fire Department. My partner and I had to treat at least 12 cases of food poisoning this week, and God knows how many more cases the other paramedics have to treat. I want to know why those kids are getting sick.”
“I’m just as concerned about this as you,” replied the clerk. “But I’m not at the liberty to give you records of Clown Burger’s most recent health reports.”
“Does another child have to die before the County decides to release health reports to the public.” Roy was close to tears. “My niece is one of those five kids who died of food poisoning this week. My daughter’s very sick in hospital, and my son is recovering from food poisoning. For my sake and the sake of other parents in the community, please give me the health reports.”
The clerk was moved by Roy’s emotional appeal. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, before turning away.
A few moments later, a tall, bulging, balding man walked to the counter. He carried a box of photo-static copies in his arms. He slapped it on the counter.
“These are Clown Burger Carson’s health reports,” the man said. “As you can see, there’s a lot of meaty stuff in there.”
Roy’s saddened face slowly brightened. “I’m willing to pay for all this,” he said. “How much will it cost?”
“I’ll let you keep all this for free, since you are a County employee,” the man replied kindly.
Roy carried the box out of the County building. Joanne left one of the back doors open, so that Roy could put the documents in the car. “So, did you put on the Roy DeSoto charm on one of the pretty clerks,” she asked.
“Well, not quite,” her husband replied. “The clerk was cute, but not my type. She was too tall and thin.” He walked around to start the car.
At home Johnny, Roy and Joanne were seated around the kitchen table. They read the health inspection reports, devouring every detail.
Johnny sipped into his root beer, but spilled some of it onto one of the photo-static copies. “Johnny,” cried Roy, “this stuff is important enough not to sneeze, spit or spill stuff on.”
“Oh, Roy,” smirked John. “Since when are you so fussy about these things?”
Joanne called the off-duty paramedics to her attention. “Men,” she said, “I found something important here.” She passed the papers to Roy, then John.
The papers contained the latest health inspection reports from the Los Angeles County Health Department. There was a lot of handwriting on the paper. “Hand washing not observed” was one handwritten note. “Meat not kept in proper temperatures” was another. “Improper cooking procedures” was the third infraction that both paramedics duly noticed.
But the most damning indictment against Clown Burger’s operations was the following: “Imminent food poisoning potential.” Written in block letters, next to the grade of D and the date stamp reading “July 1, 1976” – three weeks ago, thought the alarmed John Gage.
“I’m surprised that they didn’t shut that place down,” Gage cried. “No wonder why I got sick.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have eaten that undercooked burger,” admonished Roy.
“Well, Roy,” Johnny smirked once more, “I’ve eaten undercooked burgers before and I was fine, really.”
“You were lucky on those times,” cried his partner. “But last time you ate one of those things, you ended up in the hospital. I thought you learned your lesson about eating undercooked ground beef. Next time, you might be dead.”
The telephone rang on the wall. Joanne stood up, then lifted the receiver from its cradle. “Hello,” she replied.
“Hi, Joanne. It’s Dr. Joe Early,” spoke Dr. Early. He sounded optimistic. “Jennifer doesn’t have to go through a kidney transplant after all. She’s out of the critical list and is now semi-conscious. I think she’s going to make it.”
Joanne smiled. Only a few hours ago, she considered making funeral arrangements for Jennifer. Now, Joanne was making mental plans for her. First Grade, Brownies, dance lessons, gymnastics, maybe a new home for Popsicle, since Roy suffered from a runny nose and eyes every time he came close to him.
John and Roy looked on as Joanne listened carefully to Dr. Early’s telephone prognosis. Their hearts and faces smiled along with Joanne, finally becoming relieved that the worst was over for Jennifer. But the struggle wasn’t over yet. John and Roy had to find ways to make the health department more accountable to the public – and the food service industry more responsible for the products it sells.
22 Years Later
John Gage, Roy DeSoto and their wives went out for dinner on Memorial Day. John still drove his white Land Rover, which was beginning to show its age because of an old paint job.
“Well, we could have gone out in my Grand Cherokee,” cried Roy, now a 54-year-old man with a receding hairline and a protruding stomach. “Jennifer’s now a TV anchor in New York City, and she bought me that car with the first $40,000 she made.”
John Gage’s crooked grin was the same as it was in his mid-twenties. “Lucky devil,” he said. “If she ever takes Brokaw’s, Jennings’ or Rather’s place, you’re all set for retirement.”
“Jennifer’s too selfish for that – she grew up in the ‘80s,” spoke Roy. “Besides, the fire department’s got a nice little nest egg for me when I retire from active duty next year. And Joanne won’t retire from her reporting job for at least a while.”
“Roy,” cried Joanne, whose cropped black hair showed signs of gray. “Don’t think all the money I make will go towards that fancy-schmancy digital video thingie of yours.”
Roy pointed his finger towards a building on Carson Street. “Johnny,” he said, “turn over there.”
“Clown Burger? You haven’t been eating there since your kids got sick.”
“I just want to check out something.”
The Land Rover turned right. The primary colors that once graced Clown Burger have since been painted dark green. The building was probably redesigned in the mid-1990s, and the outdoor playground was now indoors. The word posted outside the building was also different – McDonald’s. Did somebody say – McDonald’s?
“The lawsuits put this location of Clown Burger into bankruptcy in 1982,” reported Roy DeSoto. “McDonald’s took this place over not too long afterward, and it’s been here ever since.”
“I don’t know, Roy,” spoke Carrie Gage. “I thought you were on a diet.”
“Diet-schmiet,” laughed Roy. “Even us Cordon Bleu chefs eat pizza – well, Big Macs – once in awhile.”
What appealed most to the four diners was a piece of paper posted on the door of this restaurant. It was put up by the Los Angeles County health department, and bore a letter. The latest health inspection reports gave this McDonald’s a clean bill of health. It scored A for cleanliness and food safety.
“This won’t bring Katie back,” said Roy DeSoto poignantly, “but it’s enough to stop what happened at Clown Burger and Jack in the Box from ever happening again. I think I did my job here – as a parent, grandparent, and as a member of the public. It’s hard to believe that Katie would have been 27 this year. It seems like only yesterday, Junior.”
“Well, that’s one thing from the ‘70s that I don’t want to relive.”
The Gages and the DeSotos stepped behind the glass doors of this McDonald’s for Big Macs, fries and sodas, convinced that the food they eat would be safe.
"Food for Thought" ©2000 Irene Majorka. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
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